


Darling

by trippydooda



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Dat camera, M/M, Pseudo voyerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trippydooda/pseuds/trippydooda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows it shouldn't get to him like that - that frankly the word should make him want to tear out his throat but in the truth it makes his skin crawl in the best way possible</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling

_Darling._

He knows it shouldn't get to him like that - that frankly the word should make him want to tear out his throat but in the truth it makes his skin crawl in the best way possible. He knows he shouldn't be sitting in an air vent in the middle of a goddamn mental asylum with his hand palming the growing erection in his pants. He knows he should be running away, crawling as fast as he can possibly go, but he doesn't. He knows he should turn his camera off or at the very least film something other than himself jacking off but he doesn't.

The entire place honestly smells like shit and blood mixed in with sweat and it really just reminds him of the colour brown. Even in the vents he can't escape the stench, and in fact it's only made worse with the hot metal smell mixing in. Honestly there is no reason for Waylon Park to have an erection or any hint of sexual need in a place like this, but oh well.

He stopped giving a fuck around the time a cannibal almost made ground beef of his stomach. 

The truth is he's watching a crazed fucking lunatic sew a dress he's pretty sure is meant for him out of what looks like scraps of clothing from his other "brides". The man is humming something intelligible from here but Waylon has to admit the tune is not bad. As the man makes another stitch Waylon's breath hitches and he is fully hard.

He's got one hand stabilizing himself on the back of the vent while the other frantically undoes his zipper. He thinks maybe the sound will startle the man beneath him and he will be noticed, but _oh god_ , he wants to be noticed. He wants the man's hands all over him and in him, wants those rough breaths right in his ear where he can almost _smell_ the desperation on his skin. He's found himself turned on by the smell of dried blood and the way the man clicks his tongue every time he makes a mistake.

He thinks this is how stockholm syndrome was invented.

"Perfect," the man beneath him hums as the dirtied stitched together cloth falls delicately around the mannequin. He turns about on his heel towards where Waylon is hidden in the vents hanging from the ceiling and he thinks _Oh god he's going to see me_ and takes his cock in hand. As the man's steps come closer, Waylon pumps faster. His hips start to rise and his feet skid across the metal and he just doesn't care if he's making too much noise.

It's tantalizing - having the man right beneath him rummaging through old sewing drawers when all Waylon wants to do is _touch_. He quickens his fist as he thinks of all the ways he wants this man inside him. He thinks of the way he would fuck him from behind - hands all over his chest and mouth on his neck. He'd feel a smile spread on his skin and then a bite. A hard bite, one that would probably draw blood. 

This man wouldn't be gentle, no, and Waylon doesn't need him to be. Want him to be. There would be no stretching, no preparing, nothing besides the slather of lube and then penetration. But oh, he'd make Waylon suck him off first. He'd grab what little hair he could and shove his cock into Waylon's open mouth. It would stretch his lips and lock his jaw in ways that would just be so wonderfully painful. There would be no "Are you okay?"s or "Sorry"s; just the sound of spit forming around the man's cock and dribbling down Waylon's chin. Maybe tears would form at the corners of his eyes. Maybe he'd gag and scramble slightly at the discomfort. Maybe the man would have him swallow it all, or come on his face. 

Waylon doesn't know, but _my god_ he wants so badly to find out.

His feet keep skidding and sliding against the metal, his pumps becoming more erratic and uneven. The man has started to look around for the source of the noise, and this just turns Waylon on more. "C-Come on," he barely manages to mumble out, his voice rough and unfamiliar to him. The hand that was stabilizing him falls slightly, making another loud skidding noise, and the man squints up at the vents. 

Waylon is close now, he can feel it. He knows the man must be able to tell something is up there. He wants - needs - this man to look, to find him. To fuck him. Waylon has never needed it more. He's thoroughly wrecked - clothes crinkled and perspiration dotting his skin, making it look sleek. He remembers the camera that is recording him and looks over, the red dot blinking every few seconds to remind him of what a slut he is. But he doesn't care.

"Darling? Is that you?" The man calls to the vents, and that's it. Waylon is coming, a finger flying to his mouth for his teeth to bite down on in order to avoid making noise. He continues to pump himself through the orgasm, not stopping until every last drop of come is all over the himself and the vents. 

He has exhausted himself, but he can't stay there. The thing about the man beneath him is that he'd more likely sooner kill him than he'd fuck him, and that's a reality Waylon would prefer to stay away from. He's just pulling up his pants and scrambling away when the man gets a ladder and pops off the opening. It is only when Waylon is a good distance away that he remembers his camera, but thinks to get it later.

\---

Time is hard for Waylon to tell accurately, but after too long watching inmates kill each other does he decide to retrieve his camera. He crawls back through the vents back to where the man was, and notices his camera is sitting on a table beneath him. _Shit_ , he thinks, but he has to get it back, so he climbs down.

As he tip toes over to the device and picks it up, he notices first that it's paused at the time Waylon had been directly looking at it and second that there is something slightly sticky and translucent covering most of the screen.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Femme Fatale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6988657) by [Lyumia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyumia/pseuds/Lyumia)




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